


The Lab Rat (or How Francesca Giovanni Hooper Meddled in Her Aunt's Life)

by Matori_Holmes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-TFP, Sci-Fi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 14:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9497045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Matori_Holmes/pseuds/Matori_Holmes
Summary: Molly Hooper's niece hated knowing that her aunt felt miserable. What started out as a need to get information from both parties, she ended up knowing more than enough.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was dead and now I'm back. All mistakes are mine, I've been watching way too many sci-fi movies.

Molly sighed as her niece, Francesca Giovanni Hooper, was stroking her cat, Toby. For some people, they would think the 14 years old girl was simply being affectionate to the cat. Francesca wasn’t like other kids. Having the ability to read minds was hard for Francesca but Molly assured her that being different isn’t always that bad. The problem now is that Francesca read Molly’s mind and honestly, Molly wanted to strangle the angelic looking kid.

 

Francesca wouldn’t stop frowning because of the man who hurt her aunt’s feelings.

 

She also doesn’t want to talk with Molly unless she explains what happened couple of days ago.

 

“Alright,” Molly finally said and Francesca—or Frances as Molly likes to call her—smiled at that, finally stopping her stroking (read: mind reading) on Toby who mewled and jumped onto Molly’s lap before hissing, clearly annoyed by Frances. “So you’re going to tell me?” she asked, grinning before sitting on the couch, next to her aunt. 

 

Francesca’s parents died since she was 4 and she grew up with her grandma who barely cared about her. Aunt Molly was her rock since she was 10, which was also the time she found out her ability. Due to the fact that they live in different cities, it was rare for them to meet. Her grandma, who was Molly’s mother, was strict about Francesca visits. Molly’s mother didn’t exactly approve of her choice of work and worried that Francesca would turn into Molly too (as in still single in the age of 30-something years old and lives with a cat).

 

“Why did he make you do that, Aunt Molly?” Frances asked and her brown eyes sparkled with curiosity. “I don’t know exactly, Frances,” Molly said before patting Toby’s head. “Well in my opinion and after seeing your memories, I must say, he’s a bit of an arse,” Frances said, earning a flick on her forehead. “Right, right,” she mumbled, “careful with my language.” Molly closed her eyes and reclined her head on the back of the couch, that day wasn’t exactly a good day.

 

Frances stuck her tongue out at Toby before looking at her aunt. Francesca took her aunt’s hand and found out what was Molly thinking. That day wasn’t a good day for Frances either.

 

How could the day Molly’s mother died was the same day Sherlock emotionally tortured her? The world can be really cruel sometimes.

 

“Aunt Molly,” Francesca said after pulling her hand away, “I...” she stopped. It might not be wise to tell her aunt about that right now. “It’s just...I can’t describe it, Frances,” Molly said, “I felt miserable, sad, hurt, happy, confused, angry, and it was practically a spur of emotions in one day!” Frances flinched and Toby jumped away, leaving the room. “I’m sorry,” Frances whispered.

 

And so it was set on her mind, she must meet the man who made her aunt’s horrible into a miserable one.

***

She blinked a few times. 221B Baker Street is the address, isn’t it? She thought. The flat was practically destroyed. It looked like as if an explosion had happened there. Francesca walked to the door and knocked. The name was Sherlock Holmes. She heard her friends (and of course, her aunt) talked about him; the consulting detective who ‘died’ and live again.

 

Francesca knew her aunt was involved in the fake death. She couldn’t believe Molly would put not only her job but also her life on the line. Love is such a stupid thing that makes people does stupid stuff.

 

The door opened and a warm-looking lady smiled rather sadly at her. “You can go upstairs, dear, but it’s still a bit dingy,” the lady said before letting Francesca in, mistaking her as a client. Francesca smiled awkwardly before extending her hand. “You must be Mrs. Hudson,” she said. Mrs. Hudson nodded before accepting her hand, not knowing that in merely two seconds Francesca saw glimpses of her childhood until today.

 

Francesca had to compose her face as she let go of Mrs. Hudson’s hand, retracting hers back into her jacket’s pocket. She wanted to puke when she found out about Mrs. Hudson past job. “I’ll go...upstairs, then?” Mrs. Hudson nodded. “Would you like some tea, dear?” Francesca shook her head before walking upstairs.

 

She coughed slightly; it definitely looked like an explosion happened here. “You’re not a client,” Sherlock said from his chair, wearing shirt and pants under his dressing gown, hands under his chin. Francesca kept silent, she knew about his overly well deduction. “Deduce me, then,” she challenged. Sherlock frowned, the girl looked somewhat familiar.

 

“Have I seen you before?” Francesca tensed for a second before shrugging. “Guess,” she simply answered. “You clearly don’t live in London,” he said. Francesca raised an eyebrow when he stood up and walked to her. “Not much friends, rarely goes out, you pretend to be cocky to hide your fear of new surroundings,” he continued and his eyes went wide when she suddenly placed two fingers on his temple, standing slightly on tip-toe.

 

Sherlock gasped when he saw people, places, and memories flash through his mind. It wasn’t his memories. When the memories stopped, it was also when she pulled her fingers away. “I see,” she whispered. Sherlock blinked a few times and gaped. “Molly Hooper,” he whispered back, “you’re her niece.” She nodded. “Frances is your name?” Francesca nodded. “That’s the nickname from my aunt.” They stood there in silence.

 

It was starting to get awkward.

 

She coughed before moving away. “So...a psychopath made you think there were explosives in my aunt’s flat?” she said, finally found a memory worth questioning. “She’s not exactly a psychopath,” he told her, “she was...contained too long and grew up thinking she’s alone, different, and thinking that nobody understood her.” He stared at her with a curious frown while walking backwards to the window. “Somewhat like you.”

 

Francesca looked away from his gaze. “Except you had your aunt,” he said. Francesca nodded, “She was the only one who actually looked out for me.” Francesca walked to him and said, “It’s a bit sad.” Sherlock’s expression turned into a confused one. “What is?” he asked and she smiled at him slightly. “Come to think of it, it isn’t sad, it’s actually ironic,” she corrected herself. He stood straighter; her words were confusing and building curiosity inside him.

 

“Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side,” she repeated the words from the glimpse of his memory. “And yet,” she said, “when you actually said ‘I love you’ to my aunt, you insisted that you win.” Sherlock tensed; he didn’t realize how ironic it actually sounded. “It may have skimmed my mind for awhile,” he whispered. Francesca couldn’t help but chuckle at him. “You did realize it for awhile, after...Eurus?” he nodded and she continued, “after Eurus told you that you lost.”

 

There was something odd about this girl. Somehow he felt like he seen her before and not because she looked slightly like Molly. “It’s also hilarious, in some way, how my aunt wore the same horrid sweater.” Francesca raised her hand to his temple, and before she touched it, she whispered, “Forgive me for this.”

 

Suddenly he’s in a familiar place. He seen this before and he was sure that this was his memory.

 

_“Did you get him off a murder charge?”_

 

Sherlock blinked in surprise before turning around to see his own self walking down the stairs with Molly in tow.

 

“This isn’t your memory,” Francesca said as she appeared next to him. “This is one of the memories I kept from my aunt,” she told him. They both watched as the past Sherlock and Molly converse. He told her that she matters the most and later she was telling him about her then fiancé while he listened with rapt attention. “I frequently wondered what was going inside Sherlock Holmes’ mind when she talked about Tom,” Francesca told him.

 

Sherlock moved his gaze to Francesca’s face. It was the face of a determined and curios person. “I never thought that he actually felt a minor heartbreak from it,” she said. Why wouldn’t he? His best friend was getting married and the person he trusted was about to get married too. Then suddenly the memory vanished into thin air before changing into another setting.

 

He felt his guts twisted. “No,” he whispered but he knew he couldn’t do anything because here, he was practically under Francesca’s will. “If it’s too hard for you we can forget this,” she told him.

 

Here they were, in Molly Hooper’s familiar kitchen.

 

_“You say it. Go on, you say it first. Say it. Say it like you mean it.”_

 

He closed his eyes, his own memory of it flashed behind his eyelids. “We can go—“

 

“No,” Sherlock said, stopping her mid-sentence. Francesca sighed. Molly didn’t lie when she said that Sherlock Holmes was stubborn. He heard himself say it through the speakerphone. He heard her say it out loud. Then the sound of the phone call ending before he heard her sobbed and the dull thud of her phone against her counter.

 

As he opened his eyes, he found himself back in his flat. His brows furrowed at the pale sight of Francesca and he quickly caught her from crashing against his body. “Tea,” she croaked out, sounding as if she had been choked almost to death. Sherlock nodded before dragging her to sit on John’s chair. He quickly went downstairs to Mrs. Hudson’s flat.

 

“I need tea, if possible coffee,” he told her after going through her cupboards. Mrs. Hudson stopped herself from washing the dishes. “But she said she didn’t want tea,” she told him. Sherlock barely listened to her as he grabbed a sachet of instant coffee and made a quick work of it. “She doesn’t want it, she needs it,” he said just before going back upstairs with a cup of coffee.

 

Francesca was gasping for air. “Here,” he told her, giving her the cup of coffee. “I thought I said tea,” she wheezed but still drank the coffee in a few gulps anyway. Her body was relaxed after that. “Apparently caffeine helps you after mind reading and sharing memories,” Sherlock said. Francesca nodded. “I didn’t ask for coffee because my grandma never let me drink coffee.”

 

Sherlock stared at her intently from his chair. Deducing everything he could about her as she closed her eyes, letting herself rest for awhile. It suddenly occurred to him. “Mycroft,” he said. Her eyes popped open. “What?” she asked. “I’ve seen your face before, in one of Mycroft’s files,” he told her. That made her frown, “If I remember correctly,” she said, “isn’t he...your brother/The British Government?”

 

Sherlock blinked a few times. He had, in a way, let out a secret to a 14 years old kid.

 

“Maybe that’s why...” she trailed off. “What? What is it?” he asked, leaning his body closer. “Well, on certain weekends, my grandma would take me somewhere but somehow I never remember anything that happened on Saturday and Sunday.” Sherlock clenched his fists. Could it be? “Do you know why she wears that sweater?” she suddenly said. Sherlock flinched, it was irrelevant yet he wanted to know why. 

 

Francesca stood up, putting both of her hands into her jacket pockets. “She wears it because it was her lucky sweater, according to her. It gives her a bit of confidence. That day,” she paused; a sad look dawned on her, “grandma was supposed to meet her again after years.” Then she left the flat. He didn’t stop her for more information. He already had enough from the memories Francesca left in his mind.

 

Grabbing his phone, Sherlock quickly called him.

 

“What now?” Mycroft’s irritated voice said. “Do you see her? The girl who just left my flat?” he asked as he walked to the window, watching Francesca stopped a cab. It was silent from the other end. “You know her, don’t you?” Sherlock asked. “What was she doing there, brother dear?” he asked back, avoiding the question yet answering it all the same. “I thought you said you’re the smart one, why not deduce it yourself?” and with that, Sherlock ended the call, knowing full well that Mycroft would be here in less than half an hour.

 

So he waited while playing the violin. Reminding his duet schedule with Eurus who was developing slowly but surely.

 

There was no knock, just heavy footsteps and the sound of his umbrella scraping the floor. “You’re late,” Sherlock remarked as he stopped playing. He was 5 minutes late in Sherlock’s ETA. “I was attending an important matter,” Mycroft said snidely before Sherlock looked at him. “What was she, one of your lab rats?” Sherlock spat, straight to the point.

 

Francesca wasn’t born with such powers, such capability. She was experimented and Sherlock was sure that his brother was involved in some way.

 

Mycroft sighed. “Evelyn Hooper let us borrowed her granddaughter as one of our experiment,” Mycroft told him, sounding tired. “She let you ‘borrow’ her?” Sherlock snarled. He actually cared about humanity, especially after what happened in Sherrinford. “We believe that with enough time and research, she could be useful one day,” Mycroft explained although he was fidgeting.

 

Sherlock stared at him. “Now that Evelyn Hooper has died, what will become of Francesca Giovanni Hooper?” he asked. He knew that Francesca would live with Molly. He knew because that’s what family do. He knew because he deduced that she was still adapting in London. He knew because she shared some of her memories which were mostly involved Molly Hooper.

 

Mycroft shook his head, “It’s classified, Sherlock. I can’t just tell you everything,” he told his little brother. But they both knew Mycroft only has three choices.

 

One, letting Francesca knows that she’s a project for the country’s sake. Two, explain it all to her only living relative (which unfortunately was Molly Hooper). Three, stop the project and leave Francesca to live normally as she could.

 

“I might have to talk things out with Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft said, rather stiffly. The Holmes brothers knew it would be difficult.

 

“Talk about what with me?” both Holmes froze. If only Mycroft wasn’t blocking Sherlock’s view to the doorway.

 

They both have a lot of things to talk out with Molly Hooper who was standing in a doorway with Francesca behind her, looking rather annoyed.

 

 ***

 

“Where have you been?” Molly asked as Francesca walked inside. “Uh, out?” she answered vaguely as she walked to the living room and sat on the couch, not looking into Molly’s eyes. “Stop being unfair, Frances,” she said, following her. Francesca gulped, would her aunt be mad if she tells the truth?

 

“I went to 221B Baker Street,” she answered and shut her eyes tightly. She waited like eternity before Molly said, “And?” letting out a breath she was holding, Francesca opened her eyes and found her aunt’s worried eyes. “I...” she gulped, “I can share memories now.” Molly’s eyebrows went up. “Except it drains a lot of energy, much more than after reading people’s memories,” Francesca said.

 

Molly sat next to her. “Show me,” she told her. “Show me what you did with him,” she explained. Francesca raised her hand and placed two fingers on her aunt’s temple. Considering that Molly already opened her gate for Francesca, it was less exhausting.

 

After she finished, she waited Molly’s reaction. “Please don’t cry,” Francesca whispered. But the tears fell from Molly’s eyes, silently. “I can’t believe it,” she whispered back. “He really loves you, he’s just being an arse,” Francesca said and Molly chuckled softly. After a while, Molly wiped her tears and stood up.

 

“We’re going to meet him.” Francesca gaped. “What do you mean ‘we’?” she asked. “I can’t confront him alone, can I? I need moral support,” Molly said before grabbing her niece’s arm and accidently transferred her thought to Francesca. “Ugh, you just need me to stop you from slapping him,” she said rather disgusted but she still go anyway.

 

***

  

Well...there’s quite an interesting turn of events. “Dr. Hooper,” Mycroft addressed her, stiff as usual. “Mycroft,” she said back, frowning. “Hi again,” Francesca said to Sherlock. “Apparently both Holmes has the need to talk to you and I’m sure the older Holmes can stop you from striking Sherlock, so bye!” she said quickly and almost, almost got away with it. Molly’s grip was like a falcon holding its prey.

 

“Molly,” Sherlock said, there was definitely a hint of nervousness. “I’ve shown her what happened. You love her and she loves you, now go kiss! I’m leaving!” she winced when Molly held her tighter than before. The two of them had a faint blush on their faces while Mycroft was turning slightly disgusted. Molly walked inside the flat, still holding her grip on Francesca, and Francesca accidently brushed her hand against Mycroft.

 

It was quick glimpses...but enough to comprehend. “What...why...how?!” Francesca exclaimed and her eyes stared at Mycroft’s accusingly. Anger and confusion was mixed together. Mycroft stared back warily. Molly was confused but Sherlock was surprised. The room felt suffocating for the four of them, all of the sudden.

 

“Is that what you wanted to talk with my aunt?” she asked. “What is?” Molly asked, forgetting about her confrontation at Sherlock. Mycroft fidgeted, he twirled the chain of his pocket watch. “I prefer to speak this matter in private,” he said. He wasn’t fast enough to dodge her punch. She delivered quite a nice right hook.

 

Molly spun Francesca to look at her. “Why did you do that?” she asked. “I wasn’t born with it,” she spat, looking at a certain stain on the floor, “I was...am, an experiment.” It took Molly a moment before everything fits. She looked at Sherlock who just stood there silently. “You knew?” she asked. “Just a few minutes ago,” he muttered.

 

They all stood there in the dingy flat. Too many secrets were spoiled. Molly needed to sit down. Francesca helped her aunt to sit on the couch. “Despite my...outburst,” Francesca said, not daring to look at the man, so she stared at her aunt, “I would...like to continue...being your lab rat.” Mycroft was quite surprised and delighted to know. “No,” Molly said. “I won’t let you, Frances. What if something fatal happens?” Francesca shook her head and smiled reassuringly.

 

“Apparently I’m not alone. There are others. I’m the next generation, Aunt Molly,” she told her softly. “I would like to discuss about the schedule and more about my ability, if possible right now at your office,” Francesca said, now looking at Mycroft. He nodded curtly. Francesca took a hold at her aunt’s hand and said, telepathically, “Good luck.” Molly smiled softly before telling the same thing. “Shall we?” Mycroft said and Francesca followed him, not sparing a glance at Sherlock.

 

Sherlock walked to Molly before sitting next to her. “Molly,” he started, but then she shook her head. “I get it, Sherlock.” He took her hand and she squeezed his. “You do matter, Molly. I actually mean those three words, not just because you insisted,” he told her, “I...was afraid that, after all that, if I try to meet you, you will slam the door at my face. I didn’t dare to face the rejection.” She chuckled dryly at that. “Sherlock, did you really expect me to reject you after all the times you reject me?” he looked away guiltily. “I will never reject you, Sherlock. I will be angry, yes, but rejection? Never, even as a colleague, as a friend, and ... more than a friend.”

 

“What did I ever do to deserve you?” he whispered. “What did I do to deserve you?” she whispered back. He buried his face to her neck, breathing her scent. They enjoyed the silence between them; both knowing what the others feel and all thanks were to Francesca. A small smile formed on his face, he was sure that Francesca would go along quite well with Mycroft; both seemed to like meddling into people lives silently as possible. Slowly, Molly’s breathing went even and they both fell asleep, glad to know that their problems were untangled.

 

***

 

“They’re like...Spock and Uhura,” she said. Mycroft frowned. “Is it even relevant?” he asked her. “I don’t care, I’m just glad that I finally know a lot of things today,” Francesca answered. “Nice desk,” she told him, knocking on the mahogany. “They are more like George Bailey and Mary Hatch,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. Francesca resisted the urge to laugh but she did anyway. “I never...would’ve thought...an uptight like you...watch that!” she said between gasps. He frowned at her, but after a while, he started to chuckle. 

 

They silently agreed, after Francesca calmed down and started to talk about her involvement in the project, Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper are not to be compared with any fictional couple.


End file.
